


The Wall Wolf - C. Grimes x OMC

by Agent_Mothman



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alexandria Safe-Zone, Anal Sex, Apocalypse, Boy x boy, Carl Grimes - Freeform, Carl Grimes/Ron Anderson (past) - Freeform, Carl/OMC, FTM OMC, Gay, Gay Male Character, Inspired by The Walking Dead, M/M, Male Slash, Original Character(s), Original Character-centric, POV First Person, Rough Sex, Secretly Trans, Slash, Slow Burn, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Trans OMC, Transphobia, Walkers (Walking Dead), Wolves (Walking Dead), Zombie Apocalypse, in the closet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-01 23:30:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11497068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent_Mothman/pseuds/Agent_Mothman
Summary: The wolf slinks along the Alexandrian walls every night, and Carl's there to greet him, but not with open arms.When a nameless boy with a W carved into his forehead stumbles into Enid and Carl's path, he gets the beating of a lifetime. What Carl doesn't expect if for the boy to show up at the Wall, again and again, unphased by the assault. Slowly, young Grimes begins to grow attached to the finicky stranger, and the feeling seems to be mutual, if not for the ever so odd behavior that the new acquaintance displays.---OMC x Carl Grimes, Ron x Carl [Past], Trans OMC





	1. 0. prologue

I've never enjoyed the texture of bark, I realize, face red and raw as I'm shoved against the unforgiving tree trunk another- countless- time. It is rough on top, sticky under, harshly sharp yet blunt as it tears at the soft flesh of my bottom lip and cheek. Two sets of hands are gripping me; one pair attempting to drag me from my attacker's hold, the other relentlessly shoving me into the tree.


	2. dog's breath

I've never enjoyed the texture of bark, I realize, face red and raw as I'm shoved against the unforgiving tree trunk another- countless- time. It is rough on top, sticky under, harshly sharp yet blunt as it tears at the soft flesh of my bottom lip and cheek. Two sets of hands are gripping me; one pair attempting to drag me from my attacker's hold, the other relentlessly shoving me into the tree.

His grip is in my hair, and I can feel his jagged nails scrape at my scalp. Again, I'm pulled away from the pine, only to be slammed against the wood once more, effectively knocking the wind from my lungs.

She's yelling at him. Harsh words, insulting everything from his appearance to his intelligence, but he only stops when she hits him with the flat of her hand, against his slack face, startling him into letting me go.

My nose is pouring blood, and it's thick and heavy in the back of my throat. Broken, maybe, not that it matters, because their guns are on me before I can even properly right myself.

He's gangly and lean, blue eyes wild with anger and aggression.

She's taller than he but better filled, her stance gathered and prepared. She scares me more.

My tongue runs over my front teeth, probing at the chip in the top row from my first header into the bark.

"We killed you fuckers," His voice is raw with emotion. He's angry and easily predictable now, itching to have another go at me.

I sneer. "Don't seem to recall that."

He lunges again, but she has him by the strap of his backpack, and I step out of his reach, regrettably unsteady.

"Shut up," she spits, and I'm unsure if she's talking to me, her companion, or us both, but the barrel of the gun is aimed at me. It's my life that is at risk. I fall silent.

"Don't be stupid," she's growling under her breath at him, trying to ease the strain in his muscles with her whispered pleading. "He's not worth it."

I can't suppress the strangled gargle I make before doubling over against the tree to choke up the slugs of coagulated blood that have slipped down my throat. They're both disgusted by me, but don't look away, not even as I actually throw up.

Not much comes up. Stomach acid and blood from the back of my throat. It burns like hell, but my airway is cleared once again, and I shakily look up, wiping sweat from my scarred forehead.

"That's rich," I say, desperately trying to steady my words. "coming from a couple of Wallers."

They haven't heard the term, I see it in their eyes as they blink at me, mentally picking apart my statement.

"Wallers?" She asks finally. I spit a bit more blood at her feet, and the boy makes a violent movement as if itching for his fingers to wrap around my throat. I decide to agitate him more.

"Filthy Wallers, hiding in pretty towns. Hiding from the wild ones and the biters," I snap my jaw at him, lips peeled back over my now chipped smile. "Can't keep your hands off me, huh?"

"Shut up, bitch," He shutters the words out. "Shut up."

"How are you alive?" She asks the question like my apparent survival is offending her, but I don't understand what she's asking until she mentions the others.

"You all came into Alexandria-- killed people, but we killed you all!" She's getting angry, and I know she won't hesitate to let the boy loose on me if I don't watch my tongue. I hunch my shoulders a bit like we do for Alpha; to prove we are subordinate to him.

"That was not me," I answer. "We run in packs, we're separate groups with separate beliefs --"

He scoffs, and he's shouting again, talking over me. "You honestly believe this shit, Enid? He's got the same 'W', and he was following us!"

I can't help the swell in my chest every time he says's "he". It's spat like an insult, bitter and hateful, but I feel such achievement.

The girl, Enid, has a scowl set on her face as she pieces the information together.

"Go," she says finally, ignoring the boy's noises of exasperation and protest, but I'm running before he can convince her to act differently.

My boots fall light over the over needles as I run away from the Alexandrian border, my shallow breath loud in my ears. A panicked laugh wells up in my throat, but I only let it out when I'm our of earshot of the Wallers. I rub my face harshly, huffing out breath after breath.

I can feel his phantom fingers in my hair.


	3. heavy lungs

I've always been curious. I'm not sure as to why I feel the need to poke the metaphorical lions of my life with pointed sticks, but the desire for that rush of adrenaline as I flee - or the thrill of the chase - is always under my skin, prickling like a fever that I'm trying to sweat out.

Even now, two days after my nose stopped bleeding, I'm back to the metal wall, hands pressed flat to the night-cooled surface as if I'm trying to feel the security that lies on the other side by simply touching. What a feeble dream Alexandria must have started out as; a plea for safety from the dead ones. Pulling my hands away, I smell my palms for that metallic scent that brings me back to the days spent in my father's mechanic shop. Grease. Grease, sweat, and flickering memories of homes that used to make my knees weak and my eyes dewy.

But not now. No. He's watching me. I saw him before I approached the wall. I made sure he was on guard before I moved from the shadows. He's watching with his pale gaze, jaw set around the smoldering butt of a cigarette. He's smoking the filter at this point, but he doesn't seem to care.

I lift my hand further, carding my fingers through the mats of my choppy hack-job of a haircut. I haven't had a proper haircut in almost 2 years. The blade of my knife and the reflection of a busted car window is all I have to keep me kempt, but it's good enough for me.

The dead seem to humble you.

"Do you think you would have hurt me like you did if I didn't have this?" I ask him as the pads of my fingers brush over the scarring on my forehead.

He doesn't seem alarmed. In fact, he shows no sign that he was surprised at all. He's at least 15 feet in the air, sitting on the docking of the watch post as he looks down on me, but I can hear him as clear as if he was standing behind me, through the quiet of the night.

"No," He says truthfully, and I smile. It's laughable. How stupid of him to hesitate to kill anyone. How stupid of him to not have killed me the moment he'd seen me.

"You deserve to be shot, then," I tell him, and he nods thoughtfully, as if keen to hear my explanation. "I might have killed you, no matter what letter is in my skin."

"But you didn't," he says coolly.

"And I paid dearly for it."

He flicks the butt of the smoke at me, and it bounces off my shoulder. "Could have at least given me a light. Isn't it polite."

"I think we're past being polite," but his pack of cigarettes lands at my feet. "You should go. Daryl takes shift after me, and he doesn't like stray dogs too much."

"Noted," I say, picking up the pack. Inside are 2 bent and beaten cigarettes and a worn, purple lighter. "Purple?"

"Favorite color," he replies, and his eyes burn like embers, despite the watery color. I nod.

I walk away from the wall with taught shoulders and a downcast gaze.

...

I don't smoke the cigarettes.

I hold them in my hands, fumble them with my fingers, and clutch them to my chest, but I don't smoke them.

I don't throw them away when they snap, either. I don't know why, it's not as if I don't mind smoking. I was temped to light them before I was even clear of the wall, but for some reason, I didn't. I haven't.

The lighter is against my chest too, but under my bandages. It digs into my sternum, bruising it, but I don't dare put it in my bag or pocket. I can't risk losing it. 

I don't sleep well at all, which in itself, isn't an oddity, but my train of thought doesn't leave Alexandria. In the little sleep I get, I dream of being safe behind the walls with my dad, smiling and laughing, safe from the biters. But before long, the boy's blade sinks into my father's gut, and I watch the life drain from his eyes again.

My eyes sting as the sun rises, glowing drearily through the storm clouds that occasionally rumble overhead. Rain has its pros and cons. The possibility of leaving tracks behind increases, but I can fill all my water bottles without having to boil or drain them of dirt. The walkers will also become water logged as it pours, and will slow down.

I have to collect wood now though, while it's dry. I roll off my tarp, and go about scooping up a few larger sticks. Snapping them into smaller sticks doesn't take too long, and in the course of a few minutes, I have a sizable collection. It barely fits in my bag after being folded up, but it's better than spending the night wet and cold. 

I don't need to see my reflection to know I look bad. The tautness under my eyes informs me of the heavy bags that come with lack of sleep, and I'm unable to fix my hair without my fingers getting caught in the knots. Compared to the boy on the wall, I might as well be a wild animal.

Time seems to pass so quickly. I settle my things on an incline so my resting place doesn't become flooded while I sleep, and the hours slip by after that. I don't know how long I sit silently, watching the drizzle of rain drops fall from the leaves, puddle around rocks and flow over the rotten forest floor.

I eat, of course. Little dried berries that keep me from stomach cramps until I can catch something to eat for dinner.

Most days are like this.

Wake up, move camp, get food, sleep, repeat.

Don't die.

But now, there's a new step in the schedule, and every time I remember my planned trip to the wall, a swoop of nervous anxiety hits me in the stomach.

If he's even on watch at the same time. I wait until the sun has set, until the glowing winks of fireflies light up the underbrush, and then I set out, leaving my bag in the gnarled cradle of an old tree's lower branches.

He's not there at first; an older woman is, scanning the tree line lazily, obviously bored of the job, but it's not long before she climbs down and he climbs up.

His hair is up in a pony tail, and he looks just as tired as I feel. Those blue eyes search the trees sharply, but he doesn't see me.

I debate showing myself, but there's something about watching people who don't know you're there that makes you course with adrenaline. He paces back and forth for a moment before he settles, sitting on the wall with his legs hanging over the edge. He has a fresh pack of cigarettes now, and he lights one from between his teeth, only looking up when I slink out.

He doesn't show any direct signs of being pleased to see me, but I know he must be, because he tension in his shoulders ease and he doesn't threaten or demand I leave.

"You look like shit," he says, and I shrug,  
kneeling down to yank at some wild yarrow that is growing along the brush. The plant had helped very much with my nose bleed,  
and since my nose is still susceptible to bleeding, I decided it couldn't hurt to carry some with me.

"Seen any frogs?" I ask, and he laughs at the vague question.

"Do I want to know?"

"I live on frogs half the time," I answer, shoving handfuls of the fern-like plant into my pockets. "Not my favorite, but filling."

"What's your favorite?"

I look up and he tilts his head at me, looking honestly curious.

"I miss cheeseburgers," I reply. "I used to be all about animal rights, but I think I couldn't care less now."

He nods, taking a long drag that leaves him coughing a little. "How old are you?"

I slowly fold my legs under me, raising a brow indignantly. "Isn't it my turn to ask a question?"

"We're taking turns?"

"Yes."

"Go on then," The corners of his lips twitch, but he doesn't smile.

"What's your name?" I've been wondering since my first sighting of him and that girl, Enid.

"Carl," he answers almost immediately. "And you?"

I hesitate. Of course, I have a name, a name I haven't used for years. Even now, it's foreign on my tongue. My pack-mates used to refer to me as Pup, because I was the only child, but it hardly seems appropriate here, with Carl and his high chin and clean hair. I can't be an animal anymore.

A name. I need a name, but what name? I jump from title to title, desperate for an answer to give the Waller, the Waller named Carl.

Carl. Cameron. No, James, or Josh, or -- no, it is so stupid, so -- not me. Will, or maybe Peter? Harvey? It is all so ordinary, but I need ordinary, I need some normality. Calvin, Avery, Larry, Levy --

"Lucas."

"Fits," he says, and I swell, a long held breath of air leaving my lungs. "Your turn."

"H... How old are you?" I ask after a moment, and he laughs.

"What is it, August now? 16, maybe. It's hard to remember. Do you know?"

"17," I breathe out. I count the days religiously, desperate for something to hold onto.

"No way," his laugh sounds like flowing water. "You're 15 at the least. You can't weigh more than 120 pounds."

"No, I am," I argue. "Swear."

The silence falls heavy between us, and slowly, I stand up.

"Where are you going?" He asks, sitting up slightly.

"Catch dinner, before it's too dark to see anything," But he cuts me off, demanding I stay put as he vanishes from behind the wall for a moment, and returns with two apples that he tosses down to me one at a time. I fumble them, but I don't thank him. There must be a catch, but he tells me 'goodnight' and I leave with my dinner, brows knit in confusion.


	4. haunt

That night, I dream of Carl, and I don't enjoy it one bit.

He mirrors my every move. I raise my left hand, and so does he. I tell him to leave me alone, and his lips form the same words, moving in the exact pattern that mine do. I falter for only a moment before I take a swing at him, but our fists collide with each other's cheek bones in unison, sending us crashing to the ground, jaws exploding with pain that feels distant, but still wracks my skull.

Our feet catch under our bodies as we force ourselves back upright.

I shout. "Stop it, Carl!"

"Stop it, Lucas!" He yells back.

I freeze. It's the first variation in our speech and movements since the dream began, and I'm shocked, but only for a moment.

"Carl," I say.

"Lucas," he counters.

I wave at him, and so does he, the same confused, dazed look reflected on his face that must be occupying my features.

I open my mouth to test the dream further, but he steps forward, breaking the strange mimic act.

"You're a girl," He says, and I feel my jaw slack, and watch as his does the same. "You're a murderer, too. A murderer and a Wolf."

He's gone before I can reply, but I'm not sure what I would have said. I spend the rest of the night restless, drying my eyes with my tattered sleeves.

...

Two days pass without me venturing to the wall. I spend my nights half awake, eyeing the darkness with rising suspicion that the dead will lurch from the shadows, and rip the flesh straight from the bone.

I don't eat much, either. In fact, I don't stray more than 50 paces from my resting place at a time.

I feel stuck, as if picking up camp and running isn't an option, which I know is untrue, because there is absolutely nothing stopping me from leaving Alexandrian territory - from leaving Virginia.

But I don't. I don't even consider it until someone does lurch from the shadows. Carl's hand claps over my mouth and nose, and I can taste the salty sweat on his palm from holding his handgun. I struggle violently, twisting in his grip before he urges me to be quiet with a few hushed shushes.

"What the fuck are you doing?" The words feel sluggish, as if dribbling from my mouth like spittle. I'm shocked to see him. I'd been avoiding him purposefully.

"Are you hurt? Bit?" His hands pat over my sides, feeling for wounds, but I scratch at his hands numbly until he pulls away.

"No! No-"

"Shh!"

"Sorry... No, I'm not bit. I'm not stupid. Why are you out here? You can't be alone--" I turn full circle, craning my neck to scan the forest around us, but he shakes his head, claiming his solitude. I believe him.

"You didn't show up last night or the day before. I thought --"

"Why do you care?" I snap at him suddenly, the scene of our fists meeting flesh in dream, and my nose being smashed into a tree, flashing though my mind.

"I don't," he snarls back.

"Good."

"Good..."

He's not much of a talker. Neither of us are, but somehow the silence between us is comfortable, despite our previous aggressions. I walk my 25 foot radius around my small camp twice, and he follows me the entire way without asking why. Once I'm settled on my tarp again, peeling the bark off several damp sticks, he settles across from me, watching my hands move with the aid of the knife.

He doesn't question what I'm doing, either. He must know; peeling the bark from the wood allows the bark to dry faster and become brittle enough for small fires. After a moment, he begins to skin the sticks as well, and my pile of wood scraps starts to grow.

Yet again, I'm reminded of my dream, where our movements matched up to the very tremble of our fingers, but I push the thought from my mind. It's no good to get upset over things that aren't real, especially in front of this Waller.

"They're going to find you out here, you know." I don't know how long we've been sitting there before he speaks, and I look up, reserved in what he's saying. "My dad, him and Daryl, they'd tear you limb from limb. They hate Wolves."

"Lucky me," I croak, voice raw from lack of use.

"I'm serious," he reaches out, grabbing my wrist so as to stop my working movements. I freeze, locking eyes with him for a moment. It feels longer, and I hate it. He lets go.

"You do care," I glare. "A few days ago, you were beating my face in," I gesture to the bruises and scrapes that I'd been running my fingers over all day, trying to see them with just my touch. "And now you're warning me about your fucking dad."

"This is weird for me, too," he argue, lips pulling into a sneer. "If- If Enid hadn't stopped me, I would have killed you! Bashed your head in with a rock or something--"

"Oh, aren't you just daddy's little opportunist?"

He's on me before I can carry on with my mocking, pinning me down against the soggy forest floor, and we struggle for the upper hand. "Stupid- stupid fucking-"

"Fuck you!" I attempt to spit in his face, but his fingers wrap around my throat, and it suddenly isn't as good as an idea as I'd originally thought.

"I just don't want you to fucking die," the words leave his mouth in a shuttering, breathless hiss, and his grip loosens before he's even done any damage. I blink up at him, my hard scowl still in place.

"Could have fooled me."

...

Visiting the wall at dusk becomes a habit very quickly, a habit that Carl and I grow accustomed to. We agree now that if one of us does not show up at the wall at dusk, then the other has the right to assume that something is wrong.

We blow it off as keeping tabs on the enemy, etcetera, and we don't discuss it any further than the initial agreement - but the question "why are we doing this" lingers in the air between us despite our reasoning, begging to be addressed.

"What color are your eyes?" He asks from his perch, and the inquiry makes me grimace, tilting my gaze upwards. "I can't see from here," he reiterates, "and it's too dark."

"But you've seen before," I grumble. "They're just brown."

"No they're not," he argues.

A sneer pulls at my lips as I look back up at the boy who was quickly becoming annoyed with my teasing. "If you know that, then why did you ask?"

He looks ready to climb down the wall and physically knock some sense into me (not to say he has much sense to spare), but I wave him off, picking clumps of dried mud from the grips on the bottoms of my boots. "They're something green and brown-- forgot what it's called-"

"Hazel," he supplies.

"Hazel," I parrot with a shrug. "Ordinary hazel. So ordinary that you couldn't even remember."

"You sound disappointed." I can hear the snide amusement in his tone and I know he's trying to get a rise out of me. He does it for sport, it feels like, and I make a fool of myself by buying into it each and every time.

But not this time.

"Maybe a little," I say, and he seems to be taken off guard.

"What?"

"I mean, I thought we were friends, you know?" Looking up, I fold my eyebrows into what I hope is some sort of simpering, sad expression, but from his reactions, I don't pull it off.

"Friends?" His lips pull over his clean, brushed teeth and into a familiar smile. My blood boils at the sight. "Stop fucking with me."

"Stop begging to be fucked with," I snap. He laughs more.

"It's getting dark," He chimes only a little while later.

"Yeah? Are you scared?"

"Oh, piss off, Luke," He laughs, but I'm distracted by the nickname. It's odd, and a new, strange feeling settles at the base of my neck as he says it. "You need to go back to your camp. There's talk in town about the weather being bad. The old people say they can feel it in their bones."

"You believe it?"

"Maybe. They aren't dogs or anything, but they say their joints hurt and stuff before a storm."

"It's like a super power," I'm not sure why I say it, but his eyes light up, and a warmth spreads down my spine from that place on my neck.

"Yeah," He says softly.

...

I promise myself to heed the warnings of old souls more often. The storm that brews over my head is wicked like I've never seen before, with tendrils of lightning writhing out from the mother clouds. I lay low to the pine needles, soaked to the bone as the rain relentlessly pounds down upon my back.

Compared to the heat of the summer, the rain comes down in stinging cold sheets, making my goose bumps raise and jaw clench against the violent shivering that comes soon after.

The thunder is deafening, and it seems to shake the trees from their rhythmic whipping in the wind, throwing them into a bout of groaning shutters before they take up their jerky sways once more.

It is no longer safe without shelter. I come to this conclusion when a loud splintering fills the air and overlaps all the other sounds. To my left I can see, if I squint hard enough, a tree snap like a massive toothpick, and take a second pine with it. Fear charges my spine like electricity, and I bolt to my feet, flinging mud in my rush.

The wall isn't far. I know this from my now countless visits, but the issue I have is if Carl is there in the first place, which is doubtful. Yet, with a Waller on stand by or not, I can't not try, and I find myself staggering through the mud flooded forest, almost completely blind to my surroundings.

I can't get turned around, or I risk death. I also can't wander helplessly, for fear of running into Dead ones, who are likely suffering from sensory overdrive and waterlogging.

The trees quickly become sparse, and it's only moments before my mud caked palms are clawing at the slick surface of the wall. I shout, but inevitably, it's drowned out by the roaring of thunder and carried away by the whistle of the wind.

Slowly, I crouch low, back to the forest and face to the wall, head bowed in an effort to protect myself against the worse of the storm, hood drawn up over my face.

I settle in the soaked dirt and grass to wait. For what, I'm not entirely sure.


	5. stray

I don't know when I fall asleep, or if I actually sleep at all. I don't remember giving into the exhaustion, but the rain eases up and the first rays of light begin to lighten the dark skies before I know it.

Either from sleep or a dazed and wandering mind, I'm roused by his loud whisper.

"Luke." He seems to be demanding something with his tone, for me to look up at him or respond somehow - I don't know, but anxiety seems to ooze from his very being, and lurks deep in his eyes when I look up, hood heavy and soaked with rain.

He looks grim and seems to sag with relief as I move. "Jesus," He says, and I know I must look like I've clawed my way back from the pits of hell. At least, it feels like I have.

We stay like that for what feels like ages, just gawking back at each other as if experiencing some horrible dream that's ended too good to be true.

"What the fuck happened?"

I'm unsure what he means until I remember the mud. I'm covered in dirt. It's dried and cracked in some places on my coat, and has stayed tacky and sludge-like in most others. I look like a monster from an old horror film that I only half remember.

"I imagine," I grunt, attempting to get to my feet despite my stiff muscles, "that you wouldn't be willing to let me inside to get cleaned up."

He doesn't respond, blue eyes wide, staring down at me as he leans on the wall.

"Carl," my words are raspy now. "Please let me in." 

Getting inside unnoticed wasn't nearly as hard as I thought it'd be. Carl simply opens the protective cage door and unwinds the chain that holds the larger door closed.

Now, standing on the other side of the wall, the air feels light and cool. Carl grapples with the doors for a few moments more and makes sure they are properly locked before his gaze sneaks back to me.

"You can't be seen in here," he warns. I nod in agreement, but he pushes further.

"I'm serious." He's walking towards the rows of houses at a brisk walk, eyes scanning the vacant streets for witnesses. "We're going to one of the spare houses. You're going to get cleaned up and wash your clothes, and then you have to go."

It seems harsh, but I understand the pressure he must be under, a fight between humanity and loyalty warring inside his head. I follow him, gathering my wet coat about me in an effort to keep out the chill.

We hop a fence, he a bit more gracefully than I, making our way to the back door of a somewhat large four square. Before I can question the locks, Carl changes direction, and I find us standing, reserved, in front of one of the house's glass windows.

"It's unlocked," he says.

"The house?"

"The window."

Annoyance bubbles in me, and I set my face with a scowl. I step forward and push the loudly creaking sill until it slides upwards, allowing me enough space to crawl inside.

"Aren't you coming in?" I ask, attempting to hide the fact that I'm out of breath already.

"After you unlock the door," He supplies, and I mutter about him being lazy as shit before clambering through the now open window.

Inside, the house is horribly modern and dusty, and I assume its neighboring twins are quite the same. The floor is hard wood, and the furniture of the living room is covered with tarps and bed sheets. It smells strangely of moth balls with a hint of saw dust, but I push it from my mind, crossing from the living room into the dimly lit hallway. There are no doors in the hall - rather, the door frames are unoccupied, leaving free way to the other rooms which I can only guess are the dining room, broom closet and kitchen. The kitchen is an ugly shade of mustard yellow that doesn't give the lighting of the room justice, but I ignore that too, slipping the lock on the sliding glass door and opening it.

The yard is deserted, and I blink in confusion before Carl lurches from the left with a croaky "boo".

"Oh- fuck you!" I whisper-yell as aggressively as I can as he slips by and into the kitchen.

"Shower should be upstairs. Try to hurry, I don't want anyone to come looking for me."

As I climb the stairs and wander the hall, I resist the urge to clear the landing like I would a home outside the walls of Alexandria. It's safe here, I remind myself, gently pushing open each door until I find the bathroom.

It's extravagant, but I expected as much, considering the size of each house on the block. It's nothing like where I lived before the infection set in, and I feel a bit uncomfortable with the open, airy bathroom. Everything is evenly spaced. While there is no bath, which I assume is in an entirely different bathroom, there is a walk in stall with a shower head sprouting from the wall. Rather than a curtain, its door and alternate wall are made of warped plexiglass.

The sink is somewhat ordinary, much like I'd expected, and I start by washing my hands with a cracked chunk of bar soap that was left in a little shell-shaped dish on the counter.

When I finish, it appears as if I'm wearing gloves where the grungy, unwashed dirt on my wrists ends. It's something only a shower can fix, so I begin to strip.

I see how disgusting my clothes are - and inevitably, my body - as I face the mirror. My shirt has dried everything on it. Blood, sweat, grease from meals, bile, mud, and even some unrecognizable stains that I can't seem to place. I peel the rag off, kick off my shoes, and shimmy my pants down until I'm left standing in my boxers, socks, and... bandage.

The undergarments are equally as stained, and only now, inside someplace so clean, do I realize how bad I reek. The ace bandage, which I don't recall having removed in weeks, seems to stick into my flesh, and leave my skin aching and burning as I pull it away.

It looks disgusting underneath, bruised and discolored - yellow with old aches and deep purple with fresh ones. Carl's lighter clatters to the tile floor, and I gaze at it for a moment.

'It's my favorite color.'

I don't bother to pick it up.

Carl knocks loudly on the bathroom door, and I practically jump out of my skin, throwing the bandage into the sink in a single jerky movement.

"I need your clothes so I can wash them," he says, and I breathe deeply for a moment before slipping out of the rest of my undergarments and handing off my clothes, minus the bandages, to him while staying hidden behind the door.

He's gone as soon as he has them in his arms, and I calm myself by locking the door. The bathroom suddenly does feel cramped.

The shower water runs warm after only a few seconds of sputtering from the head, and I don't think I've been so relieved to see bottles of soap and shampoo cluttering the shower ledge.

I clamber into the spray with my bandage, intent on cleaning it by hand.

The water stings horribly at first, burning my sore shoulders in a way that keeps me wincing and shying away from the otherwise gentle shower. My skin has become tender and overly sensitive to even the warm water, but thankfully, I begin to get used to it; soon, I'm clean of most of the dirt that'd covered every square inch of my body.

I let the ace bandage soak on the shower stall's floor, rinsing itself of sweat while I load my palms with a generous amount of shampoo. It smells of rosemary and mint, which I can't object to, besides the off texture that can only mean it's been stagnant. I don't worry about it, and once I begin palming it into my starchy hair, the noises that pass my lips are borderline pornographic. My scalp aches at first, but the more I massage the soap into my choppy locks of hair, the better it feels, until I'm left running my hands through my finally unmated strands.

After what feels like hours, but could only have been a little over half of one, the water begins to run cold. I've been long clean, but standing under the spray had me more relaxed than I had been in months, and I'd begun to allow my mind to wander.

Wringing my bandages free of most of the water, I open the linen closet to find fluffy towels waiting for me. I towel myself and the bandage dry, the latter for the most part.

"Luke?" I hear Carl again, apparently alerted by the shower turning off, and we exchange my clothes from behind the door again, now clean and warm from the dryer.

Only then does it dawn on me that I'm supposed to return to the forest.

...

My skin feels raw from cleaning it, pink and stinging under the bandages that only irritate my flesh more. My chest aches and throbs in protest, but I force my gaze away from the jaundice colors that ring the bruises on my ribs like sick silver linings. It's painful to touch, the skin under my breasts rubbed and chaffed to a nauseating shade of puce, and my shoulder blades smart from the cramping tightness that the ace bandages inflict.

I secure the bandage, never-the-less, and then the rest of my clothes, making sure the few curves of my body, that I have, are hidden under the bagginess of clothes.

I look god awful, I conclude, facing the mirror with the air of someone who's afraid of their reflection reaching from behind the tempered glass and attacking them ruthlessly.

Not possible, I argue with my thoughts, but the lump in my throat doesn't give in to my own rationalized thinking. Carl mumbles on the other side of the door once more; my hand finds its handle, and I gracelessly fumble my way out of the bathroom.

"You take too long," He says, shouldering past me. He doesn't bother shutting the door, flipping the toilet lid up as he undoes his zipper.

I'm not as disgusted as I'm sure I should be, but I duck from sight and down the hall a few paces, leaving Carl to piss in peace. Strands of my hair scratch at my brow line, plastered to my forehead. The water leaks down my face, but I only wipe it away with the back of my hand.

"So, the plan for getting you back out is - well, basically, you make a run for it, and I'll boost you up the wall a bit." The toilet flushes and the sink turns on.

"And if I don't?" I turn to him as he exits the bathroom, his blue eyes narrowed at me.

"Don't what?"

"Don't leave. Can't I stay here?" I sound pitiful - it's obvious and it makes my insides turn over in distaste, the tremble in my tone being close to unbearably sickening.

"That wasn't, isn't, and never will be an option, and you know it." His advancement is slow. It's light and thought out as if he were attempting to approach a wild animal. A wolf.

"Okay," I say, drawing myself up to my full height, which is a few inches taller than he is.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

We sprint across lawns and reach the wall without a hitch. Within a few breaths, I'm on the outside again, staring at the looming tree line that just doesn't seem so homely anymore.


	6. locked down

He's digging in my bags, through my things. He's kicking at my fire pit, sending ash drifting into the air. He's destroying everything that the storm hadn't. His hair is clumped and matted, and for a wild moment, I think I'm looking at one of the northern pack members. He certainly looks nasty enough, coated with sweat and grease, but then I see his partner, a much cleaner man, well-dressed, even. He isn't touching my things, but he's watching with his gun drawn, eyes scanning my strewn supplies.

"They don't have enough food," he comments, but the dirty man snorts.

"See them?" He gestures at the small snares that line the underbrush, set for anything edible. "Settin' traps. They know what they're doin'. I've been finding these little camps all 'round, but this is the only one I've come across with shit still intact."

I've been holding my breath, but I have to exhale as they shuffle around in the dry leaves, muffling the small noises I make.

"Why's it all here?" The more-groomed man says, gaze skipping right over the tree that I've plastered myself against. "Why didn't they take their bag? Their tarp?"

" 'Cause they planned on comin' back," the other replies and panic floods my chest. I'm not getting my things back, not without being seen, and once I'm seen, they'll be after me. I can only hope that the rain washed away any prints I left behind.

They continue to talk back and forth, arguing possibilities, and I'm distracted by their conversation until the snap of a twig brings me from my reveries.

It wasn't me. I haven't moved, and I snap my neck back around, focus landing on a man that can't be but 10 paces from me, face obscured by a beard, dressed in a long trench coat. Even from that far, though, I still see the look in his blue eyes that tells me that him stepping on the stick hadn't been an accident.

In the pause I take to look at him, the other men have me by the shoulders, and I am quickly reacquainted with the stench of a nose full of dirt and a fresh nosebleed. The struggle is silent, only the grunts of our grappling audible. I quickly stop fighting, knowing that it would end badly for me. They're talking, mumbling to each other, but I'm occupied by the blinding pain that can only be a 200-pound male's knee digging into my spine.

"This is it?"

"Little fuckin' shit was watchin' us --"

"Ease up Daryl, he's pretty small."

Some of the pressure gives, and my lungs make a horrible rattling noise that leaves my head swimming.

"He knew to cover his tracks. Look at 'em, he can't be older than --" The voice stops as one of the others interrupts.

"W!"

"What?"

I feel my neck strain as I'm yanked upwards by the hair to make eye contact. I'm still practically blind, but I can make out the shape of 2 people looming over me, the third being the one keeping me pinned.

"Broken nose, but-"

"Nah, look! There!" My sweat soaked bangs are pushed from my forehead and the silence that follows can only be the moment that it takes them to process the scar that sits above my eyes.

"Hit him." The words are only in my head a moment before blinding pain cracks against the back of my skull, and as I cry out, attempting to block the assault, it comes again.

The noises of the forest and the men fade as I drift from consciousness, fighting without a chance to stay awake.

I give in.

...

The room is empty, all the shelves are stripped, the door is locked, and the window is boarded with planks of sturdy wood. It has to be a garage; the floor is made of gray concrete with an empty work bench lining the right wall. I spend close to an hour nursing my pounding headache and stumbling around, searching for something -- anything -- to assist me in escaping.

Nothing. Nothing but loose, bent nails that I pry out of the drywall with my bare, scabbed hands. Even that is no good, and in a fit of fury, I throw them at the wall, watching them ping off and fly into separate corners of the room.

I'm missing my shoes and socks, and the cold tile turns my feet blue in record time. I resort to climbing onto the desk and sitting there, curled in on myself. The knife that I keep on my person had been tucked into my belt loop and is missing now, no surprise there. The little pouch of tools that I keep hidden in my right shoe is also gone, and is most likely the reason for my missing articles of clothing.

Silently, I curse myself for leaving Carl's lighter on the bathroom floor, but what I would use it for, I'm not sure.

There are no clocks in the garage, so I'm not sure how much time has passed when the garage door opens, and a stern looking woman steps inside, flanked by a gruff man whose eyes match Carl's perfectly.

I don't cower under his blue gaze, but it's difficult to keep eye contact with someone who's stare looks so familiar.

The woman orders me down from the work table, and I only pause for a moment before I comply. She approaches, and starts at my heels, patting me down for anything I may have found in the deserted room.

Dread fills my stomach the higher she goes. She checks my pockets, finds nothing, and then pats my waist band for anything that may be tucked away. She doesn't look at me until she feels the ace bandage through my shirt, and I'm almost positive I'm going to vomit all over her until she nods to the man.

"Clear," She tells him, and I stand still, holding my breath.

He opens his mouth to speak, hesitates, before continuing.   
"What's your name?"

The buzzing in my ears is insistent, but I speak without emotion. If anything Carl has told me is true, these people will not hesitate to put me down, given a reason.

"Lucas."

He plows on, "How many walkers have you killed?"

I slowly glanced up at him, holding his stare. He's serious. He's not joking. It must be a trick question; some sort of puzzle or test.

"I-" I'm tempted to say something snarky, but I'm sure it wouldn't be appreciated. "I don't- I don't count."

He nods. He must have heard that reaction before because he doesn't show any annoyance. "And how many people have you killed?"

This is it. This is the question that could peg me as a murderer or a liar. I clench my hands, attempting to swallow down my fear.

I could mention Carl, claim my affiliation. I could lie, or tell the closest to the truth that I can. I know my answer, everyone knows their answer. Wording it is different though, thinking of every face, every life that you ended. All the scenarios, all the different circumstances. How many? How many?"

"S... Seven." I choke on the word, and I know I must be trembling, because my muscles are tense, trying to keep me stalk still -- trying to keep me from giving under the pressure.

"Why?"

"Because," I croak, eyes lingering on the floor, shivers making way up my spine, "because of what would happen if I didn't."

They nod, and they leave. One after the other, they're gone, and I fall back against the desk, attempting to steady my breath.

...

Falling asleep in the garage is made easy by the pattering of rain on the roof. In no way is it comparable to last night's fall, being far more soothing, thunder rumbling in the distance rather than directly overhead.

The softest surface happens to also be the desk's table top, being made of wood rather than concrete like the floor, so I'm left to make myself comfortable on the counter.

My sleep is light, thanks to the uncomfortableness of it all, and whether that's a good or bad thing, I don't know, because I jerk awake, cracking my head against the cabinet that's mounted above me, at the sound of the garage door opening.

Carl stands in the frame, staring hard at me with what appears to be mixed emotions before he shuts the door behind him after a quick glance over his shoulder. "Are you fucking stupid?"

The question bites, but I don't answer, occupied with gritting my teeth and cradling my ever pounding head.

"I spent the entire day oblivious to the fact that YOU are locked in my garage, and you don't even have anything to say?" He stalks across the room, eyes set in a glower that would leave me cowering if set on anyone else's features. After those long hours spent talking to him, I feel somewhat immune to his testy expressions.

"Piss off," I snarl back, but he snatches my hand from my forehead, looking me over for injuries. The cabinet did no real damage, but as he probes at the back of my head with gentle fingers, I cry out (against my better judgment) in distress.

"He got you good," He spits bitterly, withdrawing his hand from the back of my skull. "You probably have a concussion."

"Good observation, no wonder you have survived this long."

My attitude isn't welcome, and he sets me with a stare that leaves me to scoff and sneer at him all I like.

"I met your dad," The words come out croaky and cracked, and I clear my throat heavily.

"Yeah? Sure that was a fuckin' blast."

"He asked me a lot of stupid questions. Like father, like son, I suppose."

He shakes his head ever so slightly, those blue eyes full of exasperation.

His stance is defensive, but he stands far too close, practically between my legs from where I sit on the work bench. There's maybe and foot and a half of space between our noses, but I don't dare give. Alpha taught me better. He's trying to intimidate me.

Instead, I lean back against the wall, keeping my body language loose and haughty.

"How are you going to get out of this?" He asks, and I'm struck off my guard, eyebrows jumping upwards.

"I don't know, Carl, I was hoping someone who knew me prior to this mess would put in a good-fucking-word for me with his Pa so I'd be less likely to be killed, but I'm not sure if I know anyone that meets that criteria-"

He reaches out, grabbing a fistful of the front of my jacket, and for a moment I flinch, preparing to be hit in the face, but he yanks me forwards until we're chest to chest. His lips hover over mine, hesitant and wavering.

I smell coffee, cigarettes, and toothpaste. He is pressing up against me all too fast; it's so unwarranted and rash, and such a volatile position, that my literal knee jerk reaction is to kick him in the gut.

He's off me faster than he was on, and gawking at me as if in as much shock as I am, hands pressing against his lower stomach where my jab landed.

I spit at his feet, and he backs up a few more paces, putting extra feet between us.

"Don't fucking touch me!" I'm defensive, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end at what he'd just done.

He seems lost for words, surprised with either himself, my rejection, or maybe both, but I can care less in the moment, barring my teeth. My anger seems to get across to him and through his thick skull, because he staggers from the garage without a word, slamming and locking the door behind him.


End file.
